How to Strain a Friendship
by GM
Summary: Illya deals with his actions during THE GURNIUS AFFAIR when he tortured Napoleon


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_Rated -- PG_

Epilog:

**_The Gurnius Affair_**

Summary:

_In __South America__, Illya impersonates a look-alike Nazi off-spring to infiltrate a movement to bring back the Reich.  Napoleon is captured and in his guise as a master interrogator, Illya tortures him, then gives him a capsule to simulate death._

**_HOW TO STRAIN A FRIENDSHIP_**

_November 27, 1967___

____________________________________________________________________

"Napoleon?"

"Yes?"

"I . . . uh . . . . "

"Yes?"

Scowling, Illya Kuryakin stopped in the corridor of UNCLE HQ and glared with rising irritation at his partner.  "You're not making this easy."  

This was the first time they had been alone since returning from South America.  The photographer Terry Cook had accompanied them on the flight, during which Solo had slept most of the way.  The simulated death chemical and its antidote had made him somewhat ill; proving that coming back from death was not an easy thing.

"Should I?"

Momentarily the darker, taller agent's expression was bland -- completely neutral and blank.  Impossible to read.  Was he deliberately goading the Russian?  Was he enjoying this fumbled apology?  Napoleon Solo reflexively slipped his right hand under his jacket -- as if reaching for his pistol -- but kept it there pressed against his side.  A subconscious response after receiving injuries to his ribs.  There had been a lot of that kind of damage lately -- along with much worse, Illya needlessly reminded himself with overshadowing guilt.  

The flush of vexation instantly subsided and Kuryakin sighed heavily.  "We haven't really had a chance -- to -- talk."

With a tentative smile Napoleon admitted, "You're right.  But do we really need to?  I mean, on this last assignment you tortured and killed me.  What is there to say?"

Illya grumbled, "You're not making this easy."

A dazzling Solo smile radiated the older man's face and he winked.  "That's the fun of it," he engagingly admitted.  "So, what do we need to talk about?" he asked, a little more seriously.  

"I -- uh -- "  he glanced around them, grumbling.  "We have had no time to -- discuss -- things."

"What are you doing for dinner?"

"You're free?"  he baldly inquired, flatly surprised that his friend was not occupied with a date.   "Usually . . . ."  He let the thought die.  Yes, usually the _bon vivant Napoleon had a bevy of eager young women anxious to date the American.  Especially when they thought they could play nurse to his minor injuries.  When the agent wasn't too impaired to enjoy the company.  When he hadn't been terribly tortured.  By his partner.  "Never mind."_

"My place.  Seven-thirty.  I don't think I'll be done with this paper work until then." Solo gave a slight bow and walked away with a jaunty wave.

What did he have to be so happy about?  Kuryakin scowled, then walked on to his office.  Nothing about life was ever easy, he sighed.  He had asked for some time alone to discuss events in South America and that had been granted.  He would be cornered with his partner this evening.  A usual occurrence, of course. Isn't that what he wanted?  Private time for them to talk?   Guilt made the prospect seem unpleasant, but it was something he needed.  To clear away his sense of culpability and make sure everything was really all right with Solo.  The American could be very deep sometimes.  Illya had to be certain his necessary actions had not left hidden wounds that could damage their partnership.  Fleetingly, he considered that perhaps the real reason he needed to talk, was to let his friend know that in this dirty business he was sometimes forced to do disagreeable things to get the job done.  He hated it most when those nasty necessities harmed his partner.  

***

Dinner was the routine fare of take out brought back to Solo's apartment.  Once they were settled with food and drink on the coffee table the senior agent started eating.  He halted when he saw Kuryakin was just picking at his food, but imbibing liberally with the vodka.

Napoleon stabbed his chop sticks at Illya's carton of noodles.  "The chow mein not to your liking tonight?"

"Not that hungry."

Solo finished chewing his sweet and sour chicken and stared at his friend.  Illya was a bit more taciturn than usual.  Moody.  Almost morose.  "You seem to have a lot on your mind."

"And you don't?"

"Not really.  You wanted to talk at the office.  About what's troubling you?"

Kuryakin stared into his glass.  "You're not upset about how things turned out?" 

"Specifically?"

The Russian nearly growled.  "What we had to do to complete the assignment!  What I had to do."

With a sigh Napoleon pushed his food around in the little white carton.  "Despite my dubious record, I am not the masochistic type.  Torture is never pleasant.  Do I understand that you had to do it to maintain your cover?" he shrugged.  "Yes.  Do I blame you? No. Was it worth it to complete the assignment?  Probably. Am I glad it's over?  Yes."

"Your flippancy is not appreciated." Illya darkly censured.

Solo placed the food on the table and spread his hands.  "What do you want me to say?"

Groaning, Illya shook his head.  "I don't know."  He stared out the window at the dark night sky.  After a time he put down his food and went to the liquor table.  He brought back two glasses this time, one with scotch, and a refill of vodka for himself.  "Several times I was on the verge of breaking my cover and stopping the torture."  He handed the scotch to Solo.  "But I didn't."

"Don't feel guilty about that."

"No, why should I?  What is a little torture among friends?"  

Solo's expression momentarily flickered with sour irritation at the sarcasm, then returned to compassionate sympathy.  "Sometimes we have to do things that are -- distasteful -- to accomplish our goals."

Illya stared into the glass of vodka as if it held all the answers.  "There is something wrong with a profession that demands such extreme measures.  Or there is a flaw with the operatives who perform such acts.  How could I believe any mission was important enough to torture my friend?"

It was the older man's turn to stare into his liquor.  After taking a gulp he responded, "Oh, you know, the usual.  Saving the world."

"Oh yes, I almost forgot," the blond retorted with scourging acerbity.  He crossed the room again and this time brought back the whole bottle of vodka.  "And how can you sit here and console me -- drink with me -- when I tortured you?"  He took a long drink.  "We are both, obviously sick, perverted deviants working for a warped organization."

"And you are getting drunk."

"I am not."

"Too much vodka always makes you moody."  He scooted over to removed the bottle, but his companion snatched it with surprisingly quick reflex and put it on the edge of the table farthest away from Solo.  "How much vodka did you have before you came over?"  Bleary eyed, Kuryakin shrugged.  Solo scowled, moving again and grabbing the liquor -- this time faster than Illya -- and moved it out of easy reach.  Sternly, he glared at his companion.  "I'm taking you home."

"I am completely sober, and you know I'm right."

Impatient, irritated, edging toward a slide into emotional pity, for both of them, he cleared away the knot in his throat.  "What do you want me to say?  That I agree?"  The distasteful times in the past returned to haunt him.  With effort he shoved away the piercing reminders of the often disgusting life they led.  It was a minor miracle that amid the distrust, the betrayals, the deadly choices, ruthless killing and frequent pain, they had found something redeeming and good to hold onto. 

"Would it make you felt better if I said I would have had to do the same thing in your place?"

The Kuryakin-glare of narrowed eyes said more than the acid rebuttal.  "How comforting."  He continued to frown.  "And serious."

"So am I."

Rolling his eyes, the Russian glowered.  "Must you have an answer for everything?"

Around a smirk, Napoleon surrendered.  "Comes with the Chinese food."

Shaking his head, Illya's mouth twitched with the shadow humor.

The American gave an approving nod.  "Okay, we're crazy.  At least we're going there together."

Illya held his head in his hands.  "I wish we could put a stop to the madness.  To stop me -- do you know how many times in the last year I've hurt you, betrayed you, tried to kill you?"  He was quiet for a moment, then with a subdued voice, nearly begged, through a voice that shook with anger, "Tell me why, when I have found something more valuable than work, or country, that I am so willing to destroy that friendship because of a mission.  Can you explain that to me?"  He sat back, leaned his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.  "Tell me -- remind me -- never mind.  Just tell me to -- tell me to go away."

Solo moved over to sit with his friend on the sofa.  His voice was level, deep, and sincere.  "That would hurt me."  

"That's not what you're supposed to say."

"It's the truth."  

"You should be angry. ** I am angry."  **

With gentle sympathy Napoleon assured him he harbored no annoyance for his friend.  It was all part of the job.  The ugly aspect that was the worst in their profession.  Torture and capture were events that were inevitable, but never enjoyable.  They were also listed among the job expectations of their careers.  What was unexpected, what caused the real problems, was the additional risk they undertook by becoming attached to their partner.

"I don't want your compassion.  When I was recruited into UNCLE --" he waved vaguely, then rubbed fingers through his hair.   "I came into this organization to utilize my skills.  To find adventure," he smirked ruefully.  

Solo nodded with amusement.  "Well, I think you got what you bargained for."

"No, I didn't," Kuryakin clarified, his face matching the intensity of this tone.  "This," he waved in Napoleon's general direction.  "This is not what I expected.  An operative should be focused on the mission, the interests of the organization."

"Don't forget world peace."

This earned the American a stern glare.  "There should be no conflicts of interest."

"You mean like friendship?"

"Must you always be so understanding?"

With a grin, Solo admitted, "It is extremely annoying when you are so surly."  Then he sobered.  "I think understanding and compassion are what friendship is all about."  Silence.  "Look, it's been a tough year, tovarich.  We're running out of medical leave, but we're still alive.  That's the bottom line, Illya."

"I don't understand friendship," the Russian sat up and finished off the last of the vodka in his glass.  

Napoleon smiled.  "I do.  It's like Peter Pan flying."

Blinking, Illya tried to focus on his friend.  "Unfair.  You are deliberately trying to confuse someone who is not drunk."

"Magic," he explained simply.  "Friendship is magic.  It's an intangible that is built on faith. Like Peter Pan believed he could fly. Faith in friendship is flexible and durable and impossible to break.  Strain, yes, but not destroy.  As long as those involved keep believing in that friendship.  And I believe in it.  In you.  No matter what happens you can't crush this intangible loyalty between us.  Because whenever you falter, my faith covers for you.  And when I'm not strong, you strengthen my deficiency.  See, magic."

"Now I'm worried.  You're starting to make sense."

"Must be the vodka."

Illya nodded and leaned over, laying down on the sofa.  "I still don't understand how you could take this so calmly.  Is this why spies should not have friends?  I understand why it is a prudent idea to keep a distance from everyone.  You should be more upset than I am."

"Strained, not broken, remember?" Solo whispered.  He retrieved a blanket from the bedroom and covered the wearied Russian.  When he sat down again he took a liberal drink of the liquor.  "How do you think I survived the torture?  Or when you tried to kill me after your brainwashing?  Because I knew after the pain and danger was over, I could still hold fast to an anchor.  You."

After a moment of staring at his friend, Illya quietly revealed, "When I arrived at the complex and learned they had identified you, I was concerned.  Then you were captured.  I didn't know what to do."

Thinking back to the ruse, Napoleon realized after his capture and confronted Illya, he was the one, spontaneously, who had started the cover story.  He made up a yarn of chasing, hunting Nexor -- the man Illya impersonated.  The tables were turned. That put Illya in charge of the situation, implying a past between them. Illya had fallen in with the ploy and it had worked.  It saved Solo and Terry from executing. Neither he nor Illya thought it would lead immediately to Solo's painful torture.   One of the unpleasant adverse effects when working undercover.

"I had to improvise."  

Almost smiling with affection at his friend's misery, Napoleon touched Illya's arm.  "I know.  Your plan saved my life.  The others wanted to just shoot me on the spot.  You put a strain in our friendship, but I came out of it alive.  For which I thank you."

He tucked the blanket around the shoulders and left his hand there in silent support.  They didn't usually indulge in these revealing debriefings.  They couldn't, their nerves and feelings could not withstand this kind of post-mortem after every mission.  But the last few months -- years -- the last few days -- had placed terrific pressure on them both.  For the partnership to survive they had to get through this.  What else could he say?

"I hope it never happens again."

Good, they were moving on, Solo sighed lightly.  "Yeah.  Me, too."

"Napoleon?"

"Yes?"

"If it does.  Happen again."

"Yes?"

"I'm apologizing ahead of time."

Solo patted his shoulder and moved over to retrieve his glass of scotch.  Downing the liquor he briefly smiled, grateful that within the magic of friendship there was a lot of elasticity and give and take for failure, for pain.  And always for forgiveness.  

"Accepted.  And if I ever have to do the same, you know it's nothing personal, right?"

Quiet snores answered him and he soberly poured himself some more scotch.  Raising his glass in a silent toast to his partner, he whispered that all was forgiven, all forgotten.  And he prayed he would never be in the same situation.

**THE END**

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